


Switched

by capalxii



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Breathplay, Butt Plugs, Dom!Clara, Dom/sub, Edgeplay, F/M, Femdom, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Tickling, sub!twelve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-09
Updated: 2015-01-09
Packaged: 2018-03-06 19:59:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3146768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/capalxii/pseuds/capalxii
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Last Christmas. Smutty implications of the whole "first face this face saw" thing. Dom Clara because that is basically all I write these days, Twelve POV. Also Clara keeps stealing his shirts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Switched

**Author's Note:**

> There wasn't really a tag for this I don't think, but there is a brief scene where a character wears a butt plug in public. FYI in case you'd like to back out.

He squeezed his eyes even more shut before blinking them open, rolled onto his stomach, thought better of it, and flopped onto his back instead. 

This body had an off switch. And it was currently missing a shirt. 

He'd blame Clara when he could be bothered to get up. He wasn't quite bothered yet. Instead, the Doctor found his eyes drifting shut once more, the lids heavy and achy and begging to close. He felt fuzzy; he frowned. Fuzziness was her fault, too, he was sure of it. 

“Doctor?”

He cracked one eye open and peered in the direction of her voice. The damnable beast was back, his nice purple Oxford shirt hanging loose and long around her, except for the sleeves, which she'd thought to roll up. Good. They wouldn't get dripped on or dunked into the mug of tea she was carrying. “Clara,” he mumbled, a rant building up in his chest. But she perched herself on the edge of the bed, smiled down at him, and ran her free hand through his hair—the rant died. He tried to grumble but it came out more like a purr. A small part of him hated this, and the rest of him curled up closer to her as she giggled at him. 

“Poor thing,” she said. “All tuckered out over nothing.” 

He'd scowl and yell later. With a different shirt. One that didn't smell like her, probably, or him mixed with her, or anything like that. 

*

This body had an off switch, and he was sure it was somehow tied to a particular operator. 

The first time the off switch had made itself known hadn't even really been anything. It was after he'd finally, finally relented and hugged back; with her hand stroking up and down his back, her face nuzzling against his neck, he'd found himself relaxing against her and sighing at her touch. Drifting, until he'd caught himself. Later, he'd thought back to other friends, all the other loves he'd known in his life, and—yes, some had been that way with him as well. A few very intensely. And the one thing they'd had in common, the ones with whom he could recall this sort of reaction, was that they were almost all the first face his then-new faces had seen. All of them, had they the mind to, could pull him under their sway, shut him down, make him fit whatever hole they needed filling with barely a snap of their fingers. 

In retrospect, he wasn't sure whether to be elated or depressed that the Brigadier had never figured it out. 

But this body had an off switch, and Clara seemed to be getting better and better at flipping it. The second time had been at the console, when she'd sneaked up behind him, her fingers digging into his ribs as she smiled against his back, and he'd—well, collapsed wasn't the most dignified description, but it was probably the most accurate. 

“Are you ticklish?” she'd gasped. “Oh, you're not. You are. You are, aren't you?”

“I'm not,” he'd tried to say, but his face had turned funny and his breath was coming out in staccato bursts and everything felt both good and awful all at once, and yes, maybe he was a bit ticklish, maybe a little, just enough that his knees had gone out from under him and he'd found himself half braced against the console and half sliding to the floor. Then she'd stopped and everything felt both good and awful in a completely different way. “I'm not,” he'd finally managed to say.

“Sorry,” she'd said, her hands flat against his ribs, holding onto him as though she were holding him up. “Looks like you are.”

“Time Lords are not ticklish,” he'd said, as archly as he could manage. The effect had been slightly dampened by the fact that he'd still been catching his breath, and had still been twitching slightly from even the lightest of her touches. “Time Lords are above being tickled.”

It had been the wrong thing to say. Her eyes had done that thing where they go all narrow, her nose had scrunched up, and then she'd slipped her hands under his jumper and it was worse. And better. And more than before. 

Somehow, he'd ended up on the floor, quickly becoming exhausted under her ministrations, coat soon gone and jumper hitched up around his neck. By the time she'd finished torturing him, he couldn't even be bothered by her tugging the thick cotton off his body, couldn't be bothered by the metal grating pressing into his bare skin. He'd been finished. At least she'd at some point rolled up his coat and put it under his head, for which he was slightly thankful. Still, he'd asked with a voice rough from laughter and terrified screaming, “Clara why did you take my jumper.”

“Because you keep it so cold in here,” she'd said. He'd glanced at her from where he'd flopped down like a rag doll, and had seen that she'd put it on. 

“Oh,” was all he'd been able to say to that.

*

The third time had been slightly different. A kiss, one that had missed his cheek because he'd been stupid (smart) and slow (deliberate), one that had gotten him right on the mouth and had short-circuited him. He was slightly proud of the fact that it had short-circuited her as well, at least momentarily, and he had smugly noted that until she'd done the scrunched-face thing and kissed him again and more properly. 

From that point on, there had been nothing he could do about it. Not that he wanted to. Not that he admitted not wanting to. Her hands, small but clever, mapped out his body; after a fight, a run, when she was rested and he was still a livewire unable to stop, she made him sit, at first with her standing behind him but soon enough with her in his lap. Straddling him because he hated not seeing her face, and that was the only way she could do what she did while still being in view. 

And so he sat in the console room's wingback chair, shirt undone, with her in his lap—it shouldn't have worked, wouldn't have had she not been so small and the chair so big—her hands soft and sure as they smoothed down his skinny chest and stroked across his skinny shoulders. When she kissed him, her hair falling around his face like a curtain, he sighed and could almost feel himself melting under her as everything around them disappeared. His hands found her thighs, crept up and back over her curves, to the small of her back and then down again. She seemed to like it, so he kept doing it, because as long as she liked what he was doing, she'd stay right where she was and keep doing what she was doing. 

A trade, he thought. A wonderful, satisfying, dreamy trade. 

Somehow, his shirts always seemed to make it onto her. That, he thought, was a slightly less fair trade. When she'd leaned up to take off her blouse, then shuffled his shirt off him, it had been nice. But her shirt wouldn't fit him as well as his shirt fit her, and when she finally decided she was finished, he was left enticingly sleepy but shirtless and cold. Well, cold until she chose to not move from his lap, curling up against his chest and tucking her head under his chin. “We should do this more often,” she said.

“Can I have my shirt back?” he asked. 

“Mmm.” Her fingers traced lightly against his ribs, and he shivered. Not ticklish, he thought. Time lords were—her fingers traced again, and he couldn't help the noise he made or the squirming he did. 

Time lords were fucked. Or at least one in particular was.

*

It didn't take that much longer for her to ask if they could default to the bed instead of the chair. “I like the chair,” he complained.

“I do too,” she said. “I just like not having a crick in my neck better.”

The Doctor shrugged and nodded. Humans were very fussy, he knew that. His Clara was human and fussy, but he was happy to make her happy and it did no harm to have their post-adventure...thing...on a bed rather than in the chair. In fact, he realized as she took his hand and led him down the hall, it may even help things. He was getting rather good at this whole kissing process, and if she were laid out before him rather than curled up on top of him, he'd have more of her to kiss. All of Clara to kiss, every inch of skin. “I'm going to kiss you on everything,” he said.

She stopped and cocked her head at him. “Promise?”

Kissing was good. Her mouth was soft, and when she barely pulled back and whispered, “Open,” and he did, he found her tongue was soft too. And when she rolled him onto his back, her hands rucking up his shirt, every bit except one bit of him went pliant. 

“Clara?” he asked.

“Yes?”

Words were also good, but he couldn't think of any, not with the skin of her neck under his lips, not with the soft curves of her hips in his hands. “Are you going to steal my shirt again?”

She sighed. Settled against him, head on his shoulder. One hand on his belly, under the thin material of his untucked shirt, scratching lightly. “I was sort of planning on it, yeah.” 

The knot in his trousers felt a little uncomfortable, but the sound and feel of her heartbeat against him was too important to risk getting rid of. “Take off your blouse,” he said. 

Every inch of skin, he wasn't lying. Her breasts were soft as he kissed them, and he listened for any sign of what he was doing right and what he was doing wrong. Teeth in some places no, teeth in others very much yes, hands sliding down and fingers curling against slickness he couldn't yet see. When she made him sit up and take his shirt off, she only tossed it away before sliding back down beside him. But there was a brief instance where their limbs sort of went everywhere at unsynchronized times, where she was kneeling over him after he'd laid back down, and the scent of her almost overwhelmed him; his hips bucked up against nothing, his hands gripped her thighs and hers gripped his hair as she said, “You promised, Doctor.”

Every inch of skin, almost. His hands did most of the work, watching every little jolt and ache play out on her face as he fingered her and teased her until she was shuddering against him, clenching against his hand, digging her fingers into his arms and burying her face against his chest. 

Humans also have off switches, he thought with a satisfied grin. He reached over, pulled his shirt back to them, and draped it over her shoulders. “Clara?” he whispered.

“In a minute,” she mumbled. It took him perhaps slightly longer to enter that strange fuzzy state between wakefulness and sleep, but he didn't mind, not when he was able to watch her drift off first.

Soon enough, he was all tuckered out over nothing. His purple shirt went missing and the thief along with it, until she came back to tease him and watch him grumble.

*

Mostly, they ended up in that bed, with her sighing against him and kneading his shoulders, his back, every bit of him until he was relaxed and dozing off. Mostly, she ended up with his shirt because he was too sleepy and lazy to do anything about it, as she wandered off to do whatever it was she felt like doing. But sometimes, just sometimes.

It wasn't fair.

She had told him not to move, and when he had objected, she said, “Do as your told,” and she knew. She knew he couldn't say no to that. The big wingback chair, again, him seated and not allowed to do anything as she started kissing down his neck and chest. Face to face, her hands pinning his wrists, not that they needed to be pinned, because she'd told him not to move and to do as he was told, and it just wasn't fair. 

Hope sprang in him as she said, “It's not enough,” but then she got up, and grabbed his shirt and yanked him up which, really, she didn't need to be quite that violent about it because the buttons popped and now it was useless though at least she wouldn't take this for her own collection. Before he could even complain or say a word, she was in the chair, and he was sinking to his knees. 

She hadn't even had to tell him, and he puffed up with pride off the look on her face. Wordlessly, he pulled her panties off, and she said, “Touch yourself,” and she didn't need to tell him twice, she really didn't. Her taste was heady, darker and sweeter than he'd imagined, and he had to focus on her, there was no way he, even he, even the great time lord himself—there was no way he could do these two things at once. 

But she wanted him to try, so try he did. With her clit throbbing against his tongue, and her inner walls tightening around his fingers, he found it didn't take much for him to lose himself in his own hand, not with the sounds she was making or the way her thighs pressed against him so hard. 

He caught his breath against those thighs. “Clara,” he said. “Maybe. Maybe bed?”

“Bed,” she agreed. A long, quiet moment later: “Can't move yet.”

The Doctor cleaned his hands on his handkerchief, then eased her legs off his shoulders, somewhat less gracefully than he'd hoped. Leaning back against her, he said, “Just sit here then.”

Her fingers, gently and idly through his hair: his eyes shut slowly.

*

Eventually, it didn't even take an adventure for her to find his off switch and steal his clothes. Or maybe it was more accurate to say that finding his off switch was itself the adventure, and his shirt was the prize.

“Can we try something?” she asked one day. The sky above them was purple, the start of a new day upon them and they were lying on a soft picnic blanket with hot tea and breakfast waiting for them. “Something different.”

Kissing her had been different, he thought. Tasting her had been as well, and wonderfully so. He propped himself up on an elbow and looked at her. “Yes. What would you like?”

She blushed a bit, flustered, and said, “You've probably done this before,” and she was right, he had. 

Didn't mean he wouldn't do it again.

*

On. This was the on switch. This was the opposite of being off. Not that he was complaining, but. 

They were in a market. They had been in one earlier, but a different one, one where she had darted in, found what she'd wanted, and come back out to meet him. “Are you sure?” she'd asked. So worried that maybe things were going too fast for him, so concerned that he wasn't being given the chance to take a breath--it had only made him more confident in her. More confident that she _would_ stop, if he ever had a mind to ask, or even if he didn't have a mind to but needed to stop anyway.

So he had said, “Yes, Clara, it's fine,” but he was stupid. It was fine, and not fine, and too fine all at once.

Before, in the TARDIS: more kissing, which he was quite happy to do. More touching, more of her clever hands all over his body, until she had whispered, “On your knees,” and he had done it. She'd slicked him up, had slicked it up too, that little plug that she had just bought, and it had gone in not with ease but not with too much resistance either.

And now. He was on. In a busy market where he had been before, but where she had not, and they were walking and it was inside of him, moving whenever he moved, shifting in a way that only brought to mind the sound of her voice when she'd slid it in him. “Are there telepaths around?” she asked.

“Probably.” He tried to make his words sound casual, but he knew she could hear the tension there. “They won't be able to see into my mind, though, too many walls-”

“What about mine?” She chewed her thumb nervously as she looked up at him. “I don't have walls.”

They'd hear her. They would feel the way she was looking at him, if she was loud enough they would notice her broadcasting—he let his own walls down, just enough to feel her out, and oh she was loud. So happy to think about him with her toy inside of him, so happy to think about how eager he had been to please her. They'd hear her, if they wanted to, and they'd know. “Clara,” he said, and he couldn't do anything to make that sound casual. He couldn't do anything to make that sound like anything other than the rawness of being hers that he felt in that moment.

“Shh.” Her hands skated down his chest and stomach, fingers drawing soft little circles just above his hip bones. “Walk with me. Just a little while longer.”

“A little while” was no more than a few minutes, with her walking in front of him so close that she kept brushing against the very thing she was hiding from the crowd. By the time they got back to the TARDIS, his knees were shaking almost as badly as his hands; by the time she took the plug out, he was begging her not to, and it was only the feel of her hands on his thighs and back that got him quiet again.

On and off all at the same time; it was a strange thing to feel, as she collected him in her arms and ran her hands up and down his back. Everything else in the universe was shut out, and the only thing he could think, speak, or breathe was, “Clara, Clara. Clara.” 

He zoned out with her name on his lips, unaware of her slipping out of the bed. The next thing he knew, she was coming back in with two mugs of tea in her hands, her body swimming in his jumper. “Thought you might appreciate this,” she said with a smile, handing him his mug.

He sat up, oddly aware of his own nakedness compared to her, oddly bashful as he tugged the sheets up around him before taking the mug from her. “Thank you,” he said.

Slowly, carefully, she curled up next to him and sipped her tea. “No. Thank you, Doctor. I missed so much I didn't even know I was missing.”

He glanced down at himself, then back at her. “You missed me?”

She grinned and dropped her head against his shoulder. “Of course, you big stupid. You're my best friend.”

He thought very hard about saying she was his as well, but as he mostly felt that he was hers in any respect, instead he nuzzled the top of her head and murmured, “Understandable.”

*

“Slow down.”

It had been, in retrospect, possibly a mistake to explain to her the whole respiratory bypass thing. Knowing that she couldn't actually hurt him had made her eyes light up right before she'd nervously bitten her finger and asked, “So we can do this, yeah? I mean, if you want to?”

And he had wanted to. His hearts had skipped beats at the thought of handing even more over to her, he had nodded eagerly, and he had said, “More than anything.”

Now, he slowed down, his fingers trembling as he leaned back against her and teased his swollen cock. Her hands loosened around his neck and a small part of him was sad for the loss; this had been a mistake he would surely love to make again. The cues were clear: speed up when she tightened her grip, slow down when she loosened it, let go, as agonizing as that was, when she dropped her hands from his neck completely. 

When she finally took his hands in hers, threading her fingers through his and bringing them up so that she could kiss his knuckles, he found himself gasping not from a lack of air. Her legs were twined around his, keeping them spread, and when she whispered from behind him, “That's all for now, Doctor,” he nodded and tried desperately to will himself soft again. 

It was a trick, one he'd suspected from the start, but one that he couldn't be mad about falling for. The entire exercise had made him downright clingy, and when he was ready he tugged her against his chest and ran his fingers through her hair. Warm, hers, frustrated and sated in equal parts, he asked, “Are you all right?”

Clara looked up at him, smiled, and crawled up his body until he could taste her. Permission granted, elation felt, he came when she did with nothing touching him, with his hands on her hips and his mouth on her clit. 

*

He should have known this would happen. 

The Doctor woke up with a start, grunting and feeling something wet against his cheek.

“You were drooling,” she said. He could hear the smirk in her voice, and, scowling, wiped his cheek.

“Time lords do not drool.” 

“No, they just pass out after coming.” It could have been a sharp, bitter statement, but Clara was laughing as she said it, and anything that could make Clara laugh was never a bad thing. “Are you okay?”

“'M fine,” he mumbled. He should have known it. There were psychic connections, one-way in some cases, not loops if the other person was incapable of safely engaging, but they were there and apparently they could temporarily fry his brain once he was actually inside her. “It's not fair.”

“Oh, shut it.” She stroked his hair; sitting up next to him, a book in one hand and his favorite jumper on her body, she said, “I think you needed the rest.”

“It's only because-” 

His objections sputtered to a halt as he realized what he was about to say, but Clara, too-curious Clara, wonderful aggravating Clara, slid down beside him, looked him in the eyes and asked, “Because what?”

The Doctor frowned and said, “Because I'm safe with you. Yours was the first face this face saw, and it deemed you safe. Your eyes are going wide, Clara, they're doing that thing again, how do they even get that big-”

“Shut it,” she said again, and kissed him. Kissing was good. Kissing he could do. He sighed and parted his lips for her, rolling onto her as she pulled him along. “Is that why you let me do all these things?”

He propped himself up on his forearms and shrugged. “I belong to you.”

“Can you help it? Could you stop?”

“Yes. But I don't want to. I like it, Clara.” He liked it because it was Clara, and he liked Clara regardless, but he kept that to himself lest she get a swelled head. Kneeing her legs apart, he settled between them and pushed in; safe, warm, focused on nothing but her, he said, “Tell me what you like.”

“I like,” she whispered. Then she broke out into a grin and said, “I like that you're going to pass out again after this, aren't you?”

“Yes, please ruin the moment with awkward and pointed observation.” But he kissed her nose, her cheek, her jaw, before settling with his mouth on her neck and his pace just slow enough to build her up the way he knew she wanted. If it was good enough for her, it was good enough for him, and judging by the way she kept hold of him, whispering his name and clenching around him, it was fairly good for her.

He did pass out again. She kept wearing his jumper. As he drifted back to the feel of her hand tracing swirls and lines up and down his spine, he realized that, just like everything else between them, it wasn't really his anyway.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [All Trains Are Going Local](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3168119) by [levendis](https://archiveofourown.org/users/levendis/pseuds/levendis)




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